


Nobody Dances Sober

by bluebeholder



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Historically Accurate Speakeasy Snacks, Jazz Age, M/M, Music, Speakeasies, Swing Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 19:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13061043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: “Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.” ~HP LovecraftOn a night at a speakeasy, Credence and company justhappento encounter Percival Graves, Credence's long-time crush. And nothing might have happened, because neither man is particularly good at expressing feelings. But jazz and moonshine together can work miracles...and nobody in the speakeasy is dancing sober.





	Nobody Dances Sober

**Author's Note:**

  * For [particolored_socks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/particolored_socks/gifts).



> After two solid months, now that I'm clear of final exams and essays: I RETURN! With a gift! This is fulfillment for particolored_socks in the Fandom Loves Puerto Rico auction. I was asked for swing dancing, jazz, Percival Graves forearms, height differences, and FLUFF ABOVE ALL ELSE. 
> 
> Here you go--I hope it suits! <3<3<3

He is going _dancing_.

Him.

Dancing.

He is going to listen to jazz and ragtime, and see women in short skirts dance the Charleston with dashing men, and probably witness acts of debauchery and drunkenness.

Credence is so excited he can barely stand it.

His suit tonight is plain dark gray, with a vest just slightly lighter, which Queenie assures him is the most current fashion. Credence can’t quite get behind the wild shirts and ties he normally sees out on the street, so his shirt is white and collared. His cufflinks—which he’d purchased himself, a daring act of luxury that had just about knocked him over—are gold embossed with curlicues; his tie is also a sort of “old gold” with an art deco pattern.

One last look in the mirror serves to fix his collar and check his hair. It’s no longer kept flat and straight and tamed by the hot irons which he’d once used, but rather allowed to wave naturally, shaped with just a little brilliantine. Credence is told that he looks like a movie star, done up like this: he’s not sure he sees it, but he doesn’t mind. He’s not one for looks, anyway.

“You oughta be,” Queenie says, gently scolding as he comes out of his room. “Face like yours should be on posters all over New York!”

“Don’t tease me,” Credence says, looking away from her.

Queenie pats his cheek. “I wouldn’t,” she says. “Promise.”

Tina sweeps out of the room she and Queenie share in fine form. Both of them are in floaty, fluttery dresses, the epitome of style and grace. Tina wears green; Queenie wears gold. They look like princesses in a storybook, and with the enchantments Queenie had poured into the dresses over the last few days they might as well be. They have beads and skewed hemlines, open-necked and drape-backed and sleeveless. Tina’s wearing a string of pearls; Queenie has two bead necklaces in bright colors. Tina has a simple headband and of course Queenie has taken the opportunity to wear something that sparkles beautifully, plumed and bejeweled. They look gorgeous.

“Thanks,” Queenie says with a beatific smile.

Tina goes to the window and looks out. “Isn’t Jacob picking us up?” she asks over her shoulder.

“That’s what he said!” Queenie says. “Don’t know how he convinced Newt to go along, but they’re coming together!” She winks at Credence and he sighs, smiling. They both know exactly how Newt was convinced, and it had something to do with the dress Tina’s wearing right now.

Tonight is, apparently, quite questionably legal. Tina uncomfortably ducks around any questions about whether or not things will go wrong, only repeating that nothing bad is going to happen and that they certainly won’t be raided by Aurors while they’re at the speakeasy. This is a night at a magical speakeasy. It’s a No-Maj speakeasy, really—the illicit thrill for wizards is coming in close contact with No-Majs, dancing and drinking and more. This is the only way that they can go out properly with Jacob, so illegal or not, they’re going.

No one makes a mention of the fact that, once they’re in the car and on their way, that Newt must have enchanted it to be just slightly larger so all five of them fit. It seems to Credence sometimes that everything in the world around him right now is illegal, in one way or another. Illegal enchantments on cars, creatures kept without permits, going out with No-Majs against every law on the books, keeping _him_ out of MACUSA’s hands—the magical world is a marvel, truly.

As they drive, nearing the hidden location of the speakeasy, Queenie keeps the conversation flowing and holds Credence’s hand tight. He appreciates it. His nerves are going mad. Years of having respect for authority drummed into his head are doing him no favors tonight.

They have to park four streets away and walk. The night is warm. Queenie is arm in arm with Jacob, more well-dressed than usual; Tina has Queenie’s other arm. Newt, looking a little uncomfortable in a sharp suit, hangs back by Credence.

“I don’t like crowds so much,” Newt says. “But…” His gaze lingers on Tina and Credence smiles, lightly nudging Newt with his elbow. Newt glances at him sideways and shrugs ruefully.

At the speakeasy door there’s a password to be given to the doorman, which Queenie does, smiling beatifically. Chances are she didn’t even know it before walking up—when Credence thinks that, she throws him a knowing wink. Of course she didn’t. Legilimency is just ridiculous. Credence loves it.

Inside it’s surprisingly loud. Credence can’t distinguish the No-Majs from the wizards except by the knowing looks that people throw each other, the smiles of illicit thrill that they’re all giddily sharing on this wild night. This is one of the good speakeasies, the kind with music and a dance floor, something that’s got a hint of respectability about it. It’s the kind of place that a person could see their neighbor, then go to church tomorrow and look them in the eye with pride. Everyone is decently dressed, and if not for the liquor, Credence could think they were just at an ordinary club.

Queenie navigates them to a table by the wall, which Newt puts his back to while Jacob and Tina search out drinks. They come back with five glasses: whiskey, apparently, mixed with ginger ale. Credence accepts a glass from Tina, who winks at him.

“Guaranteed not to be the stuff that’ll make you sick,” Jacob says, raising his glass. “To seeing and being seen!”

“Hear, hear!” Tina says, laughing as she clinks her glass against Jacob’s. And then they drink.

It feels risqué and illicit and thrilling. Credence takes a deep breath and drinks. It tastes absolutely vile to him, but he manages not to make a face. Queenie hears his thoughts, though, and laughs. “Nothin’ wrong with being a teetotaler!” she says gaily, taking the glass from his hand. “You can go ask for a coke if you ain’t one for liquor.”

“I think I will,” Credence says, backing away from the table.

Tina squeezes his shoulder as he passes. “Don’t faint,” she says for some reason, glancing around the rest of the room. “You’ll be fine.”

He gives her a look—why worry about that?—and ducks away, slipping through the crowd to reach the bar, where he gets a laugh and a few sympathetic looks from tipsy ladies as he asks the bartender for a plain coke. It apparently isn’t the thing to go to a speakeasy and not drink; Credence doesn’t care. Something about the night is telling him that he wants his wits about him.

And his instincts are proven right mere moments later as he’s suddenly joined at the bar by a man he’d never expected to see in a No-Maj speakeasy. “Evening, Credence,” Mr. Graves says.

“Evening, Mr. Graves,” Credence says, years of street-corner proselytizing coming immediately to his rescue. Expecting the unexpected is par for the course out there, and he’s used to speaking before thinking if it means saving his skin. Not that he’ll get hexed or hit if he fumbles this conversation, but still, he doesn’t want this to go wrong. It’s _Mr. Graves_ , who he’s been watching from afar (and pining over like a teenager) since entering MACUSA.

Even if he’s just in the Misuse of No-Maj Artifacts Office, the lowliest filing clerk there ever was, it gives him frequent contact with the Director of Magical Security. Half the cases the Auror Office takes on are joint work with the Artifacts Office, where the Aurors handle the smuggling ring or the warlock or what have you, while the Artifacts people handle the objects themselves. This means in practice that Credence gets to see an awful lot of Mr. Graves. They’ve had _conversations_ , and thus far Credence has avoided saying anything truly stupid. And if Tina’s to be believed, Mr. Graves asks after Credence frequently when he and Tina have a moment alone.

And now they’re standing at a bar together, without anyone else around, undercover and in disguise as No-Majs, not at MACUSA, no one who knows them watching. They could be anyone. They could be just two strangers, and at the thought of _that_ fantasy Credence feels suddenly bold.

Perhaps Mr. Graves feels the same way, because he looks at Credence for a long moment and says, “You look lovely tonight.”

Credence ducks his head, hoping he isn’t blushing. “Thank you,” he says. “And you—”

“I’m dressed like I’m going to work, don’t worry about returning the compliment,” Mr. Graves says with a wave of his hand. “Thanks for the thought, though.”

“You look good,” Credence says obstinately. “Don’t tell me not to compliment you.”

Mr. Graves seems startled by his own smile, but Credence thinks it agrees with him. He looks even more handsome when he smiles, an occurrence so rare that it seems impossible. “You’re kinder to me than I deserve,” he says.

“It’s common courtesy, Mr. Graves,” Credence says.

“Common courtesy’s a rare thing these days,” Mr. Graves says, taking him by the elbow and steering him toward the table where Tina, Queenie, Jacob and Newt are sitting. “And please: we’re standing in an illegal speakeasy in which I am pointedly not doing my job as I deliberately overlook every single flagrant violation of the law this city has to offer. Just Graves is fine.”

“All right,” Credence says, a little light-headed. The familiar contact, the smile, the off-the-record intimacy of address—

He’s absolutely never going to survive the night if this man is in the room.

Tina grins as Credence and Graves come up to the table, firing a wink at Credence. “Evening, sir,” she says. “Found our lost friend, I see.”

“We’re not at work, Tina,” Graves says patiently. He glances around the table, lingering briefly on Jacob. “I see that the gang’s all here.”

“Damn right,” Jacob says. “Wouldn’t miss a night to go dancing with my girl!”

Queenie bites her lip with an embarrassed little laugh. “ _Jacob_!”

“It’s all right,” Graves says. “I’m _technically_ off duty.”

“In practice keeping an eye on the lot of us to make sure that we don’t do anything silly,” Newt says to Tina, casting a sly sideways look at Graves.

He just shakes his head. “No one can prove anything,” he says to Credence. “Though they’ll try.”

Just then, the band strikes up a new tune. There’s a drum beat that swings through the bar, the trombones and trumpets wail and Queenie’s whole face lights up. “Oh! I know this one,” she says, leaping to her feet. “Come on!”

“What is it?” Tina asks, rising more slowly.

“Sing, sing, sing!” Queenie says, snatching Jacob’s hand as the clarinets join the throng. “You know it! I play it all the time!”

“Yeah!” Jacob says, straightening his jacket. “Come on, doll.” Queenie laughs, gay and bright, and as fast as they step into the crowd she and Jacob are gone. It’s swing dancing, people kicking up their heels and waving their hands, a whirl of color and laughter with music

Newt stands up and offers a hand to Tina. “…shall we?” he asks. Credence silently cheers.

Tina’s cheeks go red but she takes his hand anyway. “We shall,” she says. She shoots Credence a look and he holds up crossed fingers, at which she smiles. “You mind holding the table?”

“No, not at all,” Credence says, uncrossing his fingers just as Newt looks his way. “Go, dance!”

And just like that, Newt and Tina are gone. Credence is alone with Graves at the table. His heart is in his throat as he turns and just looks, for a moment. In black, as ever, Graves seems to fade into the shadows of their corner. His gaze is sharp, watching the crowd for trouble, but it seems that there’s little enough to be had. He looks at Credence and smiles again. “Well, we’ll be here all night,” he says, glancing at his wristwatch. “We should probably amuse ourselves until your friends get tired of dancing.”

“They won’t,” Credence says with a small laugh. “Didn’t you hear? Queenie and Jacob won a two-week walkathon in April.”

Dropping his head into his hands, Graves sighs. “For my peace of mind, the next thing that you’re going to say is that it was a wizards-only event, right?”

Credence can’t help a laugh. “It was a wizards-only event,” he says.

“That’s the story we’ll stick to,” Graves says. He looks up at Credence. “You seem happy to be here tonight.”

“I don’t get out much,” Credence says with a shrug. “Bit of a homebody.”

“I can’t blame you,” Graves says with deep fellow feeling. “After work I’d rather go home than go out with people I can’t stand. Put my feet up, read a good book.”

Images pop into Credence’s head of Graves wearing a smoking jacket and reading some ancient grimoire in comfortable surroundings. That’s a new fantasy and he’s fairly sure it will follow him home tonight. He’ll be lying in bed, alone, probably a little bit cold because the apartment is drafty, considering curling up beside Graves in a large armchair, heights be damned. He doesn’t mention that aloud. “No gentlemen friends to go out with?”

Graves outright laughs. “Not for damn near a decade! I haven’t got the time. And you—no beau?”

“No, never,” Credence says. He refrains from saying either thought that pops into his head. One is that Graves is out of touch with the modern terms; the fad now is to call someone your boyfriend or girlfriend. The other is that if Credence had to pick someone he’d pick Graves and _that_ isn’t something Credence wants to admit right now. “But it’s all right. Just being here’s enough.”

“It is an interesting night,” Graves says. “I never thought I’d see something like this outside of Chicago, but here we are.”

Chicago? “Do wizards go to speakeasies there?”

Graves makes an offended sound, picks up the nearest glass of whiskey, and finishes it theatrically though there’s barely a swallow left. “There are wizard _gangsters_ there,” he says. “The Chicago Outfit and all their rivals keep wizards on the payroll. Hell to enforce the law out there. And don’t get me started on Texas. Out of New York, being an Auror’s a job and a half.”

The thought is entrancing. Those pulp novels that children smuggled to each other in church suddenly seem closer than ever. Credence leans forward, elbows on the table. “Have you ever been to St. Louis? Or Los Angeles?”

“How the hell do you think we got branch offices out there?” Graves asks. There’s a distinct sort of sparkle in his eye. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Hollywood incident before.”

“I haven’t!” Credence says. His head’s suddenly full of movie stars and red theater seats and the sounds of film reels. “What happened?”

Graves leans back in his chair. “It was, oh, twenty-two? Film reels started popping up all across the country that had effects too brilliant to be real. And then they started talking.”

“Talking? In twenty-two!?”

“That’s what I said! The No-Majs didn’t figure out sound until twenty-three,” Graves says, “so obviously there was some suspicion. I’d been head of MLE for three years or so, and off I went to Hollywood. Had no idea what I was doing, still a young idiot. We found the wizards and witches responsible, and also found out that Hollywood is half full of actors and actresses with enough magical talent to get away with a lot of things.”

Credence stares at him. “…which stars?”

“I’m not going to say that Rudolph Valentino is a wizard, but I will say that there’s a good reason that we have a branch office in Los Angeles,” Graves says.

“What a story,” Credence says, shaking his head.

With a subtle flick of his wand, Graves refills two glasses of whiskey. “Summoned. The bartender won’t notice,” he says offhandedly. He offers Credence a glass. “To entertain us.”

“I don’t drink,” Credence says hesitantly. He would, if Graves asked, but the temptation of liquor is the one temptation he doesn’t crave. The temptation he does crave is sitting across the table from him, smiling at him. And that’s the one he can’t have.

Graves stands up decisively, setting the glasses down. “There’s more here to see than moonshine,” he says. “Dance with me?”

It might be a request and not a command, but it’s one that Credence would never refuse. He nods mutely and stands up, taking Graves’ proffered hand. It’s like something out of a dream, as if he’s fallen into a fairy tale that sounds of hazy jazz music and has a magical sparkle that’s only dim lights hitting bad liquor in chipped glasses.

This should be sordid, given how illegal it all is—dancing with the Director of Magical Security in a No-Maj speakeasy!—and instead Credence feels like he’s touching the divine. The music fills the air around them, Graves’ hands are strong and sure as he guides Credence through the basics of a dance, and every time Credence manages to look up from trying to sort out his feet he finds a warm smile waiting for him.

If this is a dream, he never wants to wake up.

One song swings into another, from something Credence doesn’t know into something that he does: another of Queenie’s favorites, “In The Mood”. It’s all slow trumpets and sweet trombones, a light piano melody, something perfect for the dance.

“I owe you an apology,” Graves says suddenly.

“For what?”

“For thinking you wouldn’t be able to dance.”

Credence laughs. “I couldn’t until last week,” he says. “Queenie and Jacob insisted.”

Graves shakes his head. “And where was Tina in all this?”

“Eating popcorn while she watched us fall over ourselves,” Credence says. “And then dancing with me because I’m as tall as Newt and she had to practice _somehow_. Since they’re usually too embarrassed about themselves to sit side by side at dinner.”

With expert ease, Graves puts Credence into a brief spin. “I see why they came to a speakeasy. Is it hoped that the alcohol will loosen some tongues?”

“Yes, it is,” Credence says. He gets up the courage to try the same spin with Graves, who follows along though Credence suspects he didn’t telegraph the move quite enough.

They go back to the table after their dance and find the other four already there. Someone went and collected an array of canapés: some with sardines, some with lobster, stuffed mushrooms, bread and butter folds, deviled eggs…it looks delicious, especially since Credence hadn’t expected dinner.

“Having fun?” Jacob asks, pulling out the chair beside him.

Graves slides smoothly into the seat, earning him a flabbergasted look from two-thirds of the table. “Yes,” he says. “Credence is quite the dancer.”

Credence drops into the seat between Newt and Queenie. Newt keeps looking at Tina and, when he’s not looking, she keeps looking at him. It’s the most entertaining thing to happen tonight. Jacob winks at Credence, and Graves looks between Newt and Tina before visibly sighing. But no one says anything, and conversation starts up.

It isn’t long before Jacob and Graves are talking up a storm, cheerfully arguing the merits of Quodpot and baseball, with Newt shouting out comments every now and again about Quidditch, which are soundly booed by the Americans. Tina and Queenie are rehashing work gossip again, and this leaves Credence free to watch Graves.

He’s never spent quite so much time in close proximity, and it’s fascinating to watch him. He always seems so stern at MACUSA, rarely smiling. Credence sees more smiles than most, perhaps, because Graves always seems happier doing field work. He’s been told—by Tina and by other Aurors—that, since the great disaster of 1926, that Graves has become more personable. Sometimes “personable” means “mercurial”: he has gotten incredibly angry before, and in the early parts of 1927 took nearly regular sick leave. Credence can thoroughly relate to that particular need.

But it’s 1928, now, and things for all of them seem to be fully on the mend. Newt’s moved to America full-time, when he isn’t off globe-trotting, and works as a private and very well-paid consultant for MACUSA. Tina finally has her own work and is a senior member of the Investigative team. Queenie is a secretary in full now, not a coffee girl anymore, and if Credence reads the situation right then she’s actually on the MLE payroll as the eyes watching MACUSA for any more traitors. Jacob has the tacit approval of MACUSA, after the great incident of 1927 which involved a fugitive road trip by Newt and Jacob, so that’s fine. And of course, Credence has been all right since he really began to recover. He’s learning magic, he has a wand, he has a steady job, he accidentally got adopted by an odd little family.

And if what Credence is seeing is true, then Graves is well on his way to getting adopted, too, after a mere half an hour’s time. It seems like he was meant to be here. Like he’s filled an empty space at the table they didn’t know they had, but was empty and lonely all the same. He’s outright laughing, now, since Tina turned from her conversation with Queenie to tell some hilarious story about a case she’d been working on this week. Every time that Graves’ eye catches Credence’s, Credence feels his heart do something funny. Something nice.

They polish off the food and a few more drinks. Credence feels like he might be sweating Coca-Cola later but doesn’t regret it; Tina, meanwhile, has blown past “tipsy” into “drunk”. Her eyes are bright, her laughter’s loud, and she keeps batting her lashes at Newt. Credence signals Queenie to keep Tina away from any more cocktails; Graves catches the look and assists in getting her soda, instead.

At the next dance, it’s Newt who offers Queenie a hand and Graves who pulls Tina out of her seat, all four of them spinning out onto the floor together. They make really nice couples, Newt and Queenie fast and energetic while Graves and Tina are a little slower, clearly talking as they swing.

“You gonna just stare at him all night?” Jacob asks.

Credence twitches. “No!” he says, tearing his eyes off the dance floor to look at Jacob. “I’m just…he looks nice, that’s all!”

Jacob smiles. “You’d say that if he was wearing a potato sack.”

The image is funny enough that Credence laughs. “Well, yes, but that’s because it’s him.”

“I ain’t ever seen someone carrying a torch like yours.”

Well, now he’s blushing. Spectacular. For lack of anything better to do, Credence rolls a glass between his palms, watching the light glint off the rim. “It’s not like I’m going to say anything.”

“You should,” Jacob advises. “You see Newt and Tina. It’s been almost two years and they’re still dancing around it. I bet money that they won’t even manage to really hold hands tonight.”

“I bet they will!” Credence says. “Newt keeps on staring!”

Jacob slaps a nickel down on the table. “Bet you ten cents.”

Credence digs in his pocket for a moment and comes up with a nickel of his own. “You’re on.”

Just then, Graves and Tina come back to the table, Tina clinging to his arm. Jacob sweeps the two coins away and grins at them. “Have fun?”

“Mr. Graves,” Tina says, sweeping into a chair, “is just a keen dancer.” Her New York accent, which she’s worked so hard to get rid of to make herself stand up in MACUSA, even though everyone keeps telling her she doesn’t need to bother, is coming through strong. It’s lovely.

Graves laughs and shakes his head. He leans on the back of Credence’s chair, casual and unconcerned. His fingers are on the back of Credence’s jacket and Credence, rather than stiffening, finds himself suddenly relaxed. Happy. “I’m out of practice.”

“And I’m _drunk_ ,” Tina says. “We make a perfect pair!”

“You looked nice,” Credence says.

The song is ending and Newt and Queenie stumble over, hand in hand and out of breath. “I think I’ll sit this out—” Newt starts, but then the band strikes up again and Tina’s out of her chair in a flash, seizing him with both hands and pulling him out on the floor again.

“I think I win,” Credence says cheerfully.

Jacob rolls his eyes. “Night ain’t over yet!”

Queenie gives Graves a light push on the shoulder. “You oughta dance, too,” she says, even as she’s pulling Jacob up and away from the table.

Credence twists around in the chair and looks up at Graves. “Well, what about it?” Graves asks, the hand that was on the back of the chair settling gently on Credence’s shoulder.

“I’d never say no,” Credence says honestly, standing up. He notices, as he takes Graves’ hand, that he’s just a little taller. Enough to make a difference: enough that, for the first time, Credence is seeing that this man he’s idolized is just that: a man.

It’s a wild dance. Lots of people are just about giving up on actual dancing, holding onto each other and kicking up their heels any which way. The hours are wearing on, the boards of the floor are practically shaking, and it’s incredible. Credence doesn’t know if he’s ever felt better in his life than he does right now, tonight.

All six of them reunite at the table, sweating and smiling. Credence can’t help but notice that Graves hasn’t let go of his hand once since they went to dance. He won’t mention it now, though; that would just be stupid. He’s going to enjoy this and the Devil take him for it!

Men are beginning to take off their jackets now, the informal atmosphere building an indecent camaraderie. Credence steels himself and discards his own when Jacob and Newt do, to whoops and laughter from Tina and Queenie. He expects that his own partner, so buttoned-up, will not follow suit, but then Credence turns around and nearly has his eyes fall out of his head. Graves has not only dispensed with his suit jacket, but is also in the process of rolling up his sleeves.

“I didn’t expect you to be so loose,” Tina says with a smirk, elbowing Graves lightly.

He just smiles. “Easier to dance like this.” And then he offers Credence a hand again. Credence stares at him, with his carefully-combed hair falling down and his sleeves rolled up to expose his bare forearms—defined, from years of fine wand-work—and a smile that makes him look a decade younger than he ever does.

Credence follows him. He doesn’t know the song anymore, only that a clarinet is improvising madly at such a speed that he can barely keep up, tripping over his own feet. He’s lost, lost in the music, lost in Graves’ eyes. Credence never wants to be found.

But the night is drawing on and getting very late, and the band strikes up another song. It’s swinging, sweet and slow, a respite from all the earlier throbbing, wailing music. It feels almost romantic. On the floor, Credence hesitates. He feels like he should step back from this, but Graves doesn’t let go.

“One more dance?” he asks, suddenly quiet.

“All right,” Credence says.

Instead of the distant, hand-clutching spinning swing, Graves reels Credence in, hand on his lower back, so close that Credence could kiss him, if he wanted. Credence tentatively holds his shoulder, something he’d done before, but not nearly so close as this. They’re almost cheek to cheek: looking around at the other dancers, most of them _are._

And they dance.

Jazz, Credence remembers it being said, is the work of the Devil. It’s temptation. It’s debauchery and ungodly passions running rampant. But no, Credence thinks now: it’s love and comfort, warm hands on his and a smile flashing in the smoky air of the speakeasy. Looking around all these other couples, so enamored and adoring, suddenly he’s wondering if it could be _his_ turn.

Credence steels himself. In this atmosphere he can be brave, even if his palms are sweaty and slipping where he’s clutching Graves’ hands as tightly as he can. And the way Graves is looking at him, like he’s waiting—it’s now or never.

With what feels like reckless abandon, Credence drags them both to a halt. Graves looks confused, brow furrowed, and seems to be about to speak. Heart in his throat, Credence leans forward and with a shyness that seems at odd with how bold he feels kisses Graves on the lips. It’s the merest touch, but it knocks sense into Credence’s head.

He steps back. “I’m so sorry, that was out of line—”

“Don’t run.” Graves catches his hand again and Credence freezes. The confusion on the man's face is melting away, replaced by a truly brilliant smile. “If you wanted…I wouldn’t say no to trying again.”

So Credence does.

It’s the lightest peck, but Credence feels like he might have just kissed the sun. He blinks hard, when he draws back, and Graves squeezes his hand. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t really have to. They finish the dance, unable to stop looking at each other. Credence wonders how long Graves has wanted this, too.

“All those times you just—stopped by,” Credence starts, as they step out of the way of everyone else when the next dance begins. It’s a dim corner, where they stand, out of the way, though Credence knows everyone in the speakeasy saw.

“Mostly because I wanted to see you,” Graves says. “And that time with the underground dueling ring in New Jersey, that was because of you too.”

Credence ducks his head, smiling, embarrassed. “I hoped.”

“Hope is a great thing,” Graves says. “I’d been hoping, too.”

“Did you know? I don’t think I made my intentions very clear.”

Graves leans against the wall. “Your staring said a lot,” he says. “I’m not entirely unaware of social graces, you know. But until tonight I thought I shouldn’t say anything.”

“Tonight’s a good night,” Credence says, carefully pushing loose strands of hair behind his ear. “Is this all right? On Monday, I mean.”

“As long as you and I are discreet? I see nothing wrong with asking you to go to dinner Monday night,” Graves says. “Would you like that? We could do a good No-Maj place, or something magical…”

Credence thinks he might be beet-red, but smiles all the same. “I’d love it,” he says. “If I can be just a little sappy—I think it’d be magical anywhere, long as I was with you.”

He gets a laugh for that. “Flatterer,” Graves says, looking pleased. “Come on. Your friends are waiting, I think. To make sure I haven’t carried you off to ravish you.”

Money exchanges hands as they come back to the table, everyone discreetly handing nickels to Newt, who pockets them with a self-satisfied smile. “I told you,” Newt says, “they’re quite obvious, if you happen to pay attention!”

“Now that’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Jacob says hotly. “You know I’ve got another five cents riding on this one!”

“Ten cents,” Credence corrects, “you’ll only win if I’m wrong, which I’m not.”

Everyone’s looking between them, confused, and Queenie has her hands over her mouth to stop herself from laughing loudly. Jacob winks at Credence. “We’ll explain it all later,” he says.

They have one more round of drinks, though it’s only soda at this point; everyone is just pleasantly tipsy, except for Jacob, who wisely cut himself off a while ago so he could drive them all home. It somehow isn’t a surprise when Graves goes back to the apartment with them. He and Credence sit side by side in the back of the car, and Credence can’t help watching him again. He hopes for another kiss, before the night is over.

“It’s late, but—if you’d like to come over and talk?” Graves asks quietly, as they get out of the car at the apartment.

“I would,” Credence says, just as quietly.

Newt and Tina are already gone, up the steps. Queenie hugs Graves and tells him not to be a stranger, and Jacob shakes his hand. Credence just says something hurried about going to borrow a book, and just gets a wink from Queenie in response. Jacob walks Queenie up, then comes back down with Newt. He drops two nickels in Credence’s hand before driving off.

“And what was that about?” Graves asks, watching the car go.

“Well, Tina isn’t single anymore,” Credence says cheerfully, “and I’m ten cents richer.”

“It’s been a hell of a night,” Graves says, shaking his head. He offers an arm to Credence. “We’ll Apparate, if that’s all right?”

Credence takes his arm. “Sounds fine.”

“Hold on tight,” Graves warns.

“Always,” Credence says, the word slipping out before he can stop it. He cringes a little—how stupid he must sound—but Graves just looks at him. The way he looks—it seems as though he’s known Credence a lot longer than he really has.

Graves sort of smiles. “You know, I have a record player,” he says. “We could do something a little slower than a Charleston…”

“I like the sound of that,” Credence says. “Waltz?”

“Anything you want,” Graves says. He leans up a little and kisses Credence’s cheek.

Credence is too busy blushing to even realize they’ve Apparated.

**Author's Note:**

> History for your day!
> 
> Fun fact: Coke invented the six-pack in 1923! YES, this means I should have included the Suitcase Family buying a six-pack of that to drink together—maybe I will at some point soon!!!
> 
> “Hail, Hail, The Gang’s All Here”: [A song from 1917, which means Percival would know the phrase. :3 Did you know that before World War I only women wore wristwatches? And battlefield utility gave birth to men's wristwatches as we know them? ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hail,_Hail,_the_Gang%27s_All_Here)[Here's an article that talks more in-depth about it. The dance competitions of the 1920s were called ](http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/23/fashion/wrist-watches-from-battlefield-to-fashion-accessory.html)[walkathons](http://www.historylink.org/File/5534) because, in many places, putting on a dance competition was inviting THE DEVIL...or at least indecency. A walkathon can pretend to be respectable! Even if it's the same thing. And Queenie and Jacob are both pretty good, if they can win one!


End file.
